by Barbara J Power

Created on: June 15, 2008   Last Updated: May 12, 2010

Shadow Box

The stranger in the doorway stood in silent pause as the grandfather clock struck thirteen chimes. The store was dusty and dark, fading to deep black in the corners and in the shadows of tall, dimly seen shelves. The sluggish deep-throated "dong, dong, dong" of the clock echoed eerily, like a warning.

"Come in," croaked an aged voice and a bent, ragged old man shuffled out of the darkest corner. He stared intensely at the stranger, then placed a plain wooden box on a table in the center of the room.

"This is for you," he said.

"What is it?" demanded the stranger, but the old man shuffled back into the shadows without answering or looking back. "Hey?" called the stranger, but no one answered. He shivered, feeling uneasy in the silence.

Terrified, he grabbed the box and ran from the strange room. The grandfather clock tolled one last, long, lonely, "Dong."

Outside, the sky churned black and gray, threatening rain. A jagged flash of lightening streaked the clouds to be answered by crashing thunder.

Rushing down the street to the dingy motel that had been his home for too many days, the man set the box on a rickety table buried in fast-food trash and long-neck bottles. With shaking fingers, he lit a cigarette and drained the dregs from day-old bottle of beer. Three deep nicotine drags later, he dropped the half smoked butt into the bottle and stared at the box.

What was in it? Why had that crazy old man given it to him? And what had drawn him to that store in the first place?

He reached to pick it up, then hesitated. Once opened, nothing would ever be the same.

"What kind of stupid thinking is that? It's just a box, for crying out loud."

Cautiously, he touched the wooden catch that held the lid. Nothing happened. More confident, he moved the catch, jerking at the soft click. Jumping to his feet, he stalked the room, as though searching for an unseen presence. The room had grown darker.

"Storm must be getting worse."

With shaking hands, he lit another cigarette. Taking quick draws, he stared at the box. It was waiting, waiting for him. With a final curse at his foolishness, he lifted the lid.
The box was empty.

"What the. . .?"

Disappointment and relief brought a string of unholy curses. A search of the box revealed nothing. No secret compartments, no secret messages, no nothing. Just a worthless wooden box. Disgusted, he slammed it onto the table. Outside, thunder crashed, rattling the glass window of the little room.

The man slept fitfully, tormented

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